


A few doors down

by PaperPrince



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Romance, Sherlock and John are idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperPrince/pseuds/PaperPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU John can't help falling in love with the violinist next door... Warning Slash fic with Solo smut!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A few doors down

AU! Watson is in love with the musician that lives next door. I know nothing of classical music so I apologise if there are any mistakes.

The landlady, Mrs Hudson warns him about the noisy neighbour before he moves in but John is too busy marvelling at the space of the rooms and the view of the city to really listen. "I can only scold so many times" the old woman says apologetically, her tone reminiscent of a tired but loving mother. "Dedication to ones work is one thing, but the lengths that boy takes is something else. Honestly it's a wonder if Shirley gets any sleep at all with all that practice his brother makes him do, the poor dear. You'd think Mycroft would be a nicer conductor considering" She mumbles shaking her head disapprovingly as she speaks but her tone is gentle.

John doesn't answer his mind to busy trying not to drop the box of kitchen ware that seems to double no quadruple in weight the longer he carries the bloody box. He's barely put the box down when Harry calls for him to help her with the television. It's not a particularly new model and somewhat bulky but Harry had insisted on carrying it up but is now childishly threatening to drop if he doesn't reach her by the end of her countdown. Fortunately Clara comes to his rescue, casually sliding her hands underneath the television as she plants a kiss on her wife's cheek.  
They stay to help for a few hours more, energetically lugging boxes up stairs to the first floor flat*. They alternate between helpfully unpacking books and china and enough knit-ware to supply a small shop and making fun of John's taste. They leave just before dusk along with the now empty van. John watches them go from his window before collapsing into a well-worn armchair that he had recently liberated from the side of the curb.

Rubbing his bad leg John smiles, truly pleased to be alone for the first time in weeks. Living with his sister again after so long had been hard. She had stopped drinking now thank God, in fact she was better then she'd been in years, but that didn't stop them falling back into childish feuds. It had been a good thing that Clara was there to play referee, stepping in before anything more important than his phone was broken. Harry had apologised about that and given him hers to make up for it, which was nice. He smiles at the memory and drifts into an easy sleep in a comfortable chair.

He wakes sometime later to the sound of strings. Still drowsy John clumsily reaches for the remote before realising that his television isn't even turn on. It takes him a further minute to realise that the music is coming from the next door. It occurs to him that he should go bang on the wall till the racket stops, but his leg is hurting and the music pleasant so he reconsiders. Settling back in his chair John listens enraptured as the sharp notes rise and dip. Rapid jerking movements follow anguished haunting cries as the bow scrapes the strings of the violin.

Each tune played is simply wonderful and John wonders at the violinist's stamina as he continues to play right through the night. John listens captivated by the sheer beauty of the sounds that seep from the strings unable to sleep so as to avoid missing a single note. Dawn eventually comes as it must, and with it comes the sweetest music John has ever heard. A few more notes sound as the sun settles in the sky and then it's over. A tear trickles down John's cheek and his body aches, selfishly longing to hear just a few more exquisite notes. Before he knows it John finds himself up on his feet with his hands clapping clumsily. Realising how foolish he's being he stops, his face pink in embarrassment, wondering if his appreciation has been noted. He doesn't need to strain his ears to hear the soft shaky laugh that rumbles through next door's wall.

Despite his landlady's words John somewhat expects the music to be a one off, something done on occasion rather than routine. So when he's repeatedly woken at three in the morning by the strum of strings yet when he is it's a surprise. What's even stranger is that John is pleased to have his sleep disturbed by someone who clearly is unaware that most people like to sleep at this hour. John listens trying and failing to picture the mysterious talented man who played so wonderfully yet seem so lonely at the same time.

Late nights soon become habit with John as he spends nights lying awake listening to the sharp agonisingly tantalising sound of the violin. As the melancholy music penetrates through the thin walls of his room (the chair in the living room was far too uncomfortable for a man of John to doze in on a regular basis) John imagines an awkward genius of a boy growing into an unsocial lonely man. Each piece of music played seems deeply revealing and soon John feels like he has known this man forever, though they have yet to actually meet. The more he listens the more John begins to believe the musician is baring his soul to John, inciting him with the music.

A few days later John almost catches the man in number 5 going down the stairs as John is carrying his shopping up it. At least John assumes that's who the man is for John has met the occupant of number 6 a shy quiet art student with a wheat allergy and a girlfriend. The groceries in his arms impede his view somewhat as they pass each other on the small stairs. Never the less John catches brief gimps of sharp pale cheek bones and mess dark curls as the man sweeps past him, the hint of a smile on his face as he passes. John's bad leg crumbles at the sight of that smile nearly causing him to misstep and fall. "God what a looker." He thinks clutching at the handrail desperately as his heart flounders. Unsurprisingly John finds himself loitering around the communal areas in the hopes of bumping into Sherlock again.

Some nights the stranger plays louder music that is wild and personal and far more interesting than the scripted, rehearsed pieces that flow gently and easily. John supposes he practices those pieces for work. John thinks back to his dismal tooting of a cheap clarinet that was abandoned at the age of fourteen and wonders what it must be like to be lead Violin in a real orchestra.

Somehow John finds himself inexplicably longing for the nights when erratic half strung notes mix with deep sombre tones creating something dark and untameable. On these nights John finds himself dreaming of dark wavy curls and long nimble talented fingers that know just where to touch John to make him come undone. He bits at his lips or sucking at his fingers as he indulges in fantasy so as to silences himself. His breath hitches as he touches himself repeatedly while pretending that the hands belong to someone else.

As ridiculous as it all is, John finds himself unable to give up the fantasy. Without the army his life is so boring and dull compared to the nights when his neighbour chooses to play for him. On these nights John remains silent for fear that he might be heard and the music stop and this thing, this half imagined thing with his neighbour might end. As much as John wants to cry out, to moan as he touches himself in time to the music, he doesn't for the thought of never hearing that music again is unbearable. Almost as unbearable as the man next door discovering John's unhealthy attachment to him.

Not that discovery is likely considering that besides that brief meeting on the stairway the two of them have yet to properly meet. On slow days at the surgery John daydreams about the two of them meeting one day by the mailbox or in the coffee shop around the corner. In these meetings Sherlock as his neighbour is called, Mrs Hudson tells him that much, is intelligent and strange in a good sort of way. Almost as often as John dreams of being made love to or sucked off in his chair or forcefully taken on the stairs (where they first met) John finds himself contemplating the notion of actually meeting this Sherlock. He tries to picture himself knocking on the door that is hardly any walk from his own and introducing himself to the genius next door. Tries to picture the two of them becoming friends and going to down to the pub. Tries to picture them curling up together on the sofa, but really who is he kidding? The guy next door, Sherlock doesn't care about him and why would he? It's not like John is anything special anyway.  
…...…..

A few days later John is on his way back from Tesco with jam and milk when and sleek back car with tinted windows draws up beside him. The driver's window rolls down slightly and a man wearing dark sunglasses gestures for John to get into the car. Despite all his mother's warnings about stranger danger John opens the car door and throws his bags into the car before getting in himself. Once inside John finds himself facing a rather stern looking man in a tailored three piece suit. John idly wonders for a moment if he is being recruited for some secret government agency before deciding that no the man in front of him is definitely not connected to the military.

The man clears his throat and begins to talk about music of all things. For an instant John assumes the man is addressing him but the words don't fit, he's not been missing practice and falling asleep during recitals and John has just begun to wonder if there's been some monumental mistake or if this man is insane. John decides it's probably best not to interrupt though for the man in the suit seems to be bubbling with irritation. Beside him someone lets out a snort of annoyance and frustration. Surprised John turns to find himself sitting beside a sullen Sherlock.

Before he can speak the man in a suit is talking again. "Sherlock you simply cannot continue like this! Your schoolboy crush is making yourself sick!" John barely registers the curious tinge of pink spreads across the musician's cheeks before he finds himself in the firing line himself. "Dr Watson my minions and I am are simply tired of waiting for you to get your courage together and ask my brother out on a date. I have therefore taken the liberty of making a private reservation for the two of you at a rather charming Italian restaurant in the hopes that the two of you sort out whatever this is in time for opening night. After all I would hate to be without my lead violinist." The man, Sherlock's brother flashes the two of them a smile before taking his leave.

The two of them sit in stunned silence for what feels like eternity as they attempt to process what has just happened. It takes an age but John breaks the silence rather eloquently with "So want to make out?"  
Sherlock shoots him a rather intense look of longing and almost moans out his reply. "Oh god, yes." Unsurprisingly not much is said for the rest of the drive.

**Author's Note:**

> *Note for American readers in the UK the floor of a building that is closer to what is considered the ground or street level is called the ground floor and the floor above it is called the first floor and so on. As I and John are English this is phrasing that I have decided to use.


End file.
